


chiaroscuro

by eponnia



Category: SMITH Dodie - Works, The Hundred and One Dalmatians & Related Fandoms, The Hundred and One Dalmatians - Dodie Smith
Genre: Backstory, Cross Posted on Fanfiction.net, Gen, POV Animal, POV Female Character, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 11:54:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8247836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eponnia/pseuds/eponnia
Summary: The white Persian cat comes to live with the de Vils.





	

**Author's Note:**

> In the original _The Hundred and One Dalmatians_ book, I've always wondered why the white Persian cat stayed with Cruella for so long. With an owner who personally drowned _forty two_ of the Persian's offspring, there is no feasible reason why the cat would remain. Unless, of course, there was someone who treated her well in the house; but I doubt that Mr. de Vil, a furrier, would be that person. 
> 
> The definition of chiaroscuro, according to Merriam-Webster, is the "pictorial representation in terms of light and shade without regard to color."
> 
> This, obviously, is based on the 1956 novel, because the book needs more love.

She is young, barely old enough to leave the care of her mother. But the Persian kitten knows she doesn't like how the man is looking at her.

He picks her up by the scruff, scanning her as if she is merely an object and not a living, breathing creature. She squirms as he runs his fingers through her snowy fur, hissing as he feels the texture of her hair and tugs at the roots before saying, "I'll take her."

She cries for her mother as she is placed in the deep pocket of his coat, meowing desperately as she is taken away from everything she has ever known. She remains in the firmly buttoned pocket as something carries them, a container that jostles terribly and smells of grease and oil and exhaust and makes an overwhelming amount of noise. After what feels like an eternity, she is taken from the pocket and none-too-gently placed on the floor.

"Keep an eye on her, Agnes," the man says to a woman in an apron. "Before Cruella and I get back tonight, put her in a nice box or something. I want to give her as my wedding gift."

"Yes, sir," Agnes says, and the man leaves, his footsteps shaking the floor and unsettling the tiny eight-week-old kitten. Once the door slams shut, Agnes bends down. "Why, 'ello there," she says in a soft, quiet voice, and the cat blinks at her. "Don't be afraid, little one. I won't 'urt you."

The woman runs a gentle finger along the kitten's back, and the cat leans into her hand.

She spends hours with the quiet Agnes, drinking the bowl of milk the woman prepares and chasing the feather duster the woman holds out. The kitten eventually falls asleep on Agnes' aproned lap, a comforting hand running lightly over her fur, until she is awoken when the woman picks her up, cradling the cat with two hands. Through the window, the sky is dark, and snow is falling.

"My apologies," Agnes says as she places the cat on a table in the kitchen. The kitten meows as the woman carves a hole with a knife into a cardboard lid, placing the cat in a box and the lid over both. The kitten struggles to keep her balance in the darkness as Agnes lifts the box to tie something around it, and through the hole the cat can see the woman tying a red ribbon. When her container is stable, the kitten stretches to reach a small paw through the lid.

"I am sorry," Agnes says, gently holding the kitten's paw. "I do wish you were mine," the woman says in a low voice after a moment. "But you belong to the de Vils', dear. You need to be as wonderful for them as you were for me."

The cat flexes her paw against Agnes' skin, keeping her claws sheathed.

"I'll still be around, little one," Agnes adds. "As long as the de Vils employ me to look after their 'ouse, I'll be here."

An overwhelmingly loud car horn sounds outside.

With ringing ears, the kitten darts into a corner of the box to hide. "That would be the de Vils," Agnes says with a sigh, and lifts the box carefully. Moments after the box is set down somewhere else, a door slams open, and the cat can hear a loud female voice that hurts her head.

"I told you, Sawyer, I don't want to go on a honeymoon," the loud woman says as her heels strike against the floor and her dress rustles on the hardwood.

"Welcome home, Mr. and Mrs. de Vil," Agnes offers.

"Ella–" the man who had brought the cat to this place begins, ignoring Agnes, but the loud woman who smells of dead fur and pepper interrupts.

" _Cruella_ ," she snaps. "I told you to call me that, Sawyer."

"Cruella," Mr. de Vil repeats dutifully. "I got you something. As a wedding gift."

"Is it furs?" Cruella says greedily.

"In a way," Sawyer replies after a moment.

Suddenly, the box is jostled almost violently as Cruella hurries to open it. After the ribbon is untied, the lid is pulled open and the cowering cat looks up to see a towering, beautiful woman – one side of her hair jet black and the other side as pale as the kitten's own fur – peers inside the box. Cruella wears blood-red lipstick, an elaborate white wedding dress with black evening gloves, and an absolutely simple white mink fur cloak. She smells so strongly of pepper that the kitten sneezes.

"You got me a _cat_?"

Then Cruella's disdainful expression changes, and the kitten presses herself even further into the corner of the box away from the woman's unsettling smile. "Are you going to skin it for me?"

"I thought we might have something living amongst the fur," Sawyer offers.

"What kind of furrier are you?" Cruella sneers. "I married you because you skin animals, and nothing else." Sawyer's face remains blank as his wife reaches into the box.

When Sawyer had picked up the cat from her mother's side all those hours ago, his hands had not been entirely kind, but not expressly painful. Cruella's strong grip _hurts_ , and the kitten yowls.

"At least she matches the color aesthetic," Cruella says after studying the protesting cat. The kitten bares her teeth, but the woman only says, "Perhaps she'll keep mice from the furs." Cruella drops the cat into the box, and the hissing kitten darts back to the corner.

"What will you call her?" Sawyer asks.

"Blanche," Cruella says after a moment, and looks over her shoulder. "To keep the black and white theme. _Agnes_!"

"Yes, Mrs. de Vil?" Agnes's soft voice comes from across the room.

"The cat is your responsibility. Keep it generally clean and fed. Otherwise, I do not care."

"Yes, Mrs. de Vil."

Cruella strides away, Sawyer following, and the newly-named Blanche watches over the edge of the box as the strange, terrifying woman heads for the grand staircase. "I am retiring to _my_ rooms," Cruella says, giving her husband a pointed look.

"Goodnight, Cruella," Sawyer says flatly, and his wife sweeps up the stairs in her wedding gown and her luxurious furs without another word.

The scent of pepper lingers in the air as Agnes' soft hands reach into the box, coaxing Blanche out of her corner. The terrified kitten curls into the woman's arms, purring as Agnes' gentle touch soothes a trembling Blanche's anxiety-ridden, tension-filled body.

**Author's Note:**

> I believe the reason why the white Persian cat does not have a name is to reflect exactly what type of owner Cruella is. However, that meant I had to refer to the cat as… well, 'cat' for ninety five percent of this fic. So I called her Blanche in the end, because if I write another fic about the white Persian cat, I want to have an actual name to write. 
> 
> I've always wanted to write a bookverse fic for _The Hundred and One Dalmatians_ , but I never thought my first work in this fandom would be about one of the only two cats in a novel about dogs.


End file.
